The Dance of Wolves

I saw him checking me out earlier like the other young men do- just evaluating the competition, as he made minor changes to the floral displays. He is an Omega, I’d guess; I don’t feel any power radiating from him plus he has a smaller body build than the average warrior, plus he’s clearly working rather than loitering around the plants. I seem to remember seeing him earlier as he discussed arrangements with two others in drab gardening uniforms. I thought it interesting that he had a position of some authority at his age but dismissed him as I steeled myself for yet another Gathering.

Something about him made my eyes seek him out again for a longer, second look. He looks to be around 5 ft 8 and has the lean, muscular build of a swimmer or runner. Dark pecan-gold skin, long lashes around winter gray eyes; thick barely rounded brows, and deep, chestnut-colored hair brushed into long waves on top framed his face in a fringe, but the rest of his hair faded into short, tight curls on the sides and back. His long, elegant fingers caress each flower with care. His eyes held some hidden amusement when he regarded me; he looked away as I faced the endless onslaught of unmated females. He is beautiful, but even as a favor to me, my wolf wouldn’t allow it. Demetrius, Demi, my wolf wanted a mate to dance alongside him, not a trophy to protect. He’d never accept an Omega, let alone a male wolf, despite my preference. I don’t even bother to ask.

When the young man approaches my table, I’m completely under his spell. I lost track of what I was saying in mid-sentence and I can’t take my eyes away. The longer I look at him, the better he looks as if my sight was getting clearer and clearer. He’s absolutely beguiling. Once he steps in front of me, the scent of honeysuckle and sweetgrass fragrance of spring overwhelms me. It awakens a joyous sensation in me like warmth flooding through my soul and it takes my breath away. I have never felt anything like this. Demi abandons all pride and excitedly wags his tail and leaps around playfully in my mind like a lovelorn pup.

“It’s her!” Demi barks as if he is on the cusp of laughter. I have never felt him like this, my dour, angsty wolf. He feels very strongly that this person is ours, but what does he mean by the words, ‘It’s her?’ This young man is the only one before me and he’s obviously male, maybe he doesn’t identify as a cisgender man? How does my wolf even understand the complexities of today’s gender terminology?

The young man in question is looking expectantly at Dawn, on my left, and as she reaches out to her true mate behind him, his face falls. Clearly, he was hoping she was the one. So, he’s not a lover of men. How can he be mine?

I struggle to ignore the pull toward the fragrance, toward him, but suddenly Demi takes control and has me in front of him, reaching out to grab his shoulder before he can walk away. “Mate.”

He blinks and declares he needs a drink. Yeah, no, this is not going to work. I would never force myself on a straight man, my hands ball into fists at my sides as I struggle against Demi’s compulsion. My feet still move on their own when he asks if I’m coming…“Demi, what the hell?” That’s twice now he’s taken control.

Sitting down at the bar, I don’t know what to say. I feel attraction, I revel in his scent and Demi is enrapt in his own communication with the other wolf. Why don’t I feel complete? Like the mate pull is a only one way and not in my favor. What is going on here? I expected so much more after years of waiting, searching, hoping for fireworks and confetti but all I get is a cruel anti-climax.

“I think there has to be a mistake.” I blurt out.

He shrugs in response. He doesn’t seem surprised, he may even agree. He just calmly downs a flute of champagne.

“I mean, are you even gay?” I can scarcely hide the peevishness from my voice but I don’t mean to take it out on him.

“...Ah, not exactly. No,” he says in a pleasant tenor that somehow matches his scent. Of course he’s not, but I’m still sitting here like an idiot because Demi has me frozen to the spot.

“You’re an Omega male though, right?” He stiffens at my question and quaffs another drink.

“And who are you to ask me that?” Why do his tone and the directness of his question take me aback? I think about how our conversation has gone so far and I groan inwardly. I must have offended him with my bluntness. I have no filter and I lack the social skills of the others in my pack. I’m a bit of an oddity because I take after my Fae sire in looks and in some... abilities.

My mother was a warrior shifter who was captured at the beginning of the Fae wars. They were convinced she was a spy and treated her poorly. She was only able to escape because she seduced a guard. By the time she made it back to our pack, she was malnourished and weak, yet heavy with child. She died in childbirth so my pack raised me in a community effort. They were enchanted by my comeliness, and as I grew up it seemed that was all they saw--just the shell of me. I threw myself into warrior training to prove my worth to the pack and to prove to myself that I was more than my appearance.

My plan backfired spectacularly; I ended up developing a muscular, chiseled physique that was as desirable as my face. I withdrew from their attention to keep my sanity. I connected with the forest Fae and avoided my pack members. Now, I spend more time defending our borders than interacting with my peers.

I reach for a flute and take a sip. The alcohol is too sweet for my taste and I set the glass down. “I’m sorry. I-uh, can we start over? My name is Amal, and you are?”

“Tired and ready to call it a night.” He stands and readies to leave. It seems he's fighting his wolf because after two torturous, shakey steps, he turns back around to me, “Amal, was it? For whatever reason, my wolf has taken a liking to yours. I guess she’s finally snapped. Personally, I’d have liked to reject you three questions ago, but I’ve never felt her so happy.” He gestures back and forth between us with the wave of his hand. “I don’t know what this is, but for her sake; we’ll meet you outside at the entrance to the maze, in fifteen minutes,” he turns on his heel and leaves in a rush.

I didn’t even get his name. He referred to his wolf as she if I heard him right, and I am more than a little puzzled. “Demi, what is happening, how can this be?”

“I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. What matters is she is here right now and I will keep her by my side.” He growls and paces restlessly with a barely controlled aggressiveness, daring me to argue or fight him on this.

“Fine, then. Let’s get this over with.”

_____

A/N Amal means hope and Demetrius means 'follower of the earth mother'.

First impressions are important aren't they? That first meeting was a disaster, what would you suggest Amal do to make it up to Aksal? Let me know in the comments.